


Memento

by Emeka



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Guilt, Implied Mpreg, Incest, M/M, vaguely pretending the last choice of the game actually matters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-07-31 12:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20114905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: The night before the final bout.





	Memento

Robin has already made his choice.

It is a private, selfish choice, but his own in the end. After the time he has spent with all his friends, after the husband and son he has grown to love, he knows anything would be worth it to keep them safe.

He'll give his life to stop Grima.

It will be hard for them but this is war. There are sacrifices, as much as he hates to admit it. His friends will know this and eventually move on with their lives. 

Chrom will grieve deeper, and combined with the still-felt loss of his sister, he might break down for a while. But Robin trusts in his will to live, in the love of their friends to support him, and that he would want to bounce back to support their daughter and son.

Lucina had bitterly prepared herself for his death some time now. She too would mourn and move on, for her father, for Morgan.

In a way, it is Morgan that Robin is most concerned with. He has so few memories of their lives in the future, that the moments they've enjoyed together in this time are the only ones he has. And now, to lose the parent he is more strongly bonded to?

It's not right, not fair. And all he has to comfort him with is one paltry night together. The last night Robin will ever have. So badly he wants to spend it with Chrom, to love each other before the big confrontation. But it all comes back to the same.

Morgan needs him the most.

He goes to his room to tell him goodnight, and good luck for the morrow. 

There are immediate tears in Morgan's eyes, but he smiles. "My dad. The hero."

He lays in his bed with him, covers up to their chins, as close as they can get. Morgan is warm from cozying in his bed, like a human waterskin. He can actively feel his heat transferring to him, from his arms around his sides, from his legs between his.

“Dad,” Morgan whispers, somewhere against his neck, his breath as light and airy as the warmth between them. “I love you. I’ve always… loved you.”

“I love you too, Morgan.”

Morgan shushes him. The sound is like a breath itself, long, soft, the ‘u’ drawn-out into a nearly inaudible end. “More than anything. Or anyone.”

Robin does not reply. This is, he supposes, the crux of something he has known to exist. He has seen it, and pretended not to see, in the way he looks at him in comfortable moments like these. It resembles the way Chrom looks at him, feels like the expression on his own face when he looks at Chrom. It’s a look that would turn an otherwise sweet moment between father and son into intimate cuddling.

“I know what you’re going to do. I’m going to miss you so much… but, dad, if you have to go, then please...”

Is this his responsibility as a parent?

Morgan timidly touches his hand, squeezes, then waits. Vaguely Robin feels it unfair. If he had acted boldly after what he’s laid down that would be one thing. But how can he do it then leave the onus on him to act? Or not act, as the case may be. But he can’t pretend it hasn’t happened, or bring himself to scold him. “What do you want?”

“A memory.” His lips press the words into his collarbone. “Before you go.”

Perhaps it is owed to him. They have so few memories, and Robin has already left him once. He has not been much of a father to him. One final moment of bonding before the end, and maybe—maybe--a gift if they are (un)fortunate.

He kisses the top of Morgan’s head, and doesn’t think too hard what he means about it as his hands wander beneath the blanket, finding long, smooth legs, and the shallow dip of his hips into his waist. It’s the only way he can get through this. Don’t think, just act, remember this is your penance. If you’re not around, how could you ever expect him to treat you just as his father?

There’s no answer to that. Nothing that will absolve him. What were the specifics of Chrom doing this to him? He doesn’t have anything to make penetration easier. Just go slow. Slow slow slow. He cups a buttcheek, so round, full, and Morgan glues himself even tighter to him, not quite moaning. “It might hurt.”

Morgan wordlessly shakes his head.

His anus feels too small, even just compared to the point of his finger. It tightens at his touch, and seems to quiver.

His finger see-saws back and forth, not quite trying to penetrate, but working on it, loosening, like working out a muscle knot. Finally he slips inside where it is more dry than wet, but hotter than the space between them. His finger feels too rough for such a tender place, like even his pores catch on the rim. The angle is too awkward to find his prostate. Even if he could, would he be able to make him feel good? He’d never thought about it on the receiving end, merely gratefully accepted everything Chrom had to give him as they came to know each other. 

The thought of inducing that sort of pleasure in his son dismays him. Even if he does this, even if he ultimately impregnates his own son, making it good would be too far. He can give Morgan what he wants without having him panting, squirming, coming—agitation makes him probe harder, accidentally, and Morgan whimpers. Must have hurt. Poor thing.

“Is it really alright?” he whispers.

“Daddy,” Morgan says in a low, wavery voice, “please, yes. Don’t stop.” He must be in such pain, to sound so close to tears. He should really take responsibility and end this, for his own good. But it’s all he wants from him, and the last thing he has to give him. Potentially the most lasting thing, for many, many years to come.

He closes his eyes tightly, pulls his cock out of his smallclothes. Morgan parts eagerly for him, one leg hooking over his hip. He can feel his toes clenched against the back of his thigh. How long has he thought about this? Since they first met? Or did it happen gradually, along the way? ...would either option make his feelings more acceptable?

Robin’s cockhead brushes against his son’s whisper-soft inner thighs and nudges up against his perineum before finding the anus. It gives slightly more forgivingly than it did for his finger, but it still won’t be easy going.

Morgan’s fingers dig into his shoulder as he advances. Even as slow and careful as he can manage, it feels tight and uncomfortable. That he can still manage to be hard despite the situation, despite the chafing... he’s not sure why that is, or why his heart is beating so hard. It’s better this way, though, better than having to prepare himself (or Morgan preparing him; those pink little palms on his cock, and his eyes gazing soulfully up at him) so just count his blessings.

Instead of just driving deeper in, he carefully rocks his hips back and forth. Not because he’s _fucking_ his son but because it just seems to make the penetration easier. That’s all it is, and if his cock feels like it’s getting harder, warmer, it’s only so this can be finished soon.

He stays in as deep as he can when he comes. Not because it feels good, or because the idea of breeding his son in any way appeals to him, but just to make the most of the situation. If he has to come, it should be deep inside where it will do the most good and besides, it’s not even a sure thing, is it? He and Chrom had been together ages before Lucina, and ages afterward, with this world’s Morgan yet to be born (and now likely won’t be, but that’s not something he can think about right now). Even with this, Morgan still might not pregnant.

He feels a little relieved as he carefully pulls out, aided now by the sudden wetness inside. His son clings adoringly to his chest, murmuring a litany of gratitude. Something hard presses against his belly; for a moment he wonders what Morgan’s expression would be, if he looked, and what he’d say, or do, if Robin decided to turn him over on his back and look him in the eye as he bred him, slowly and with meaning, not as in this paltry imitation of the act.

Just for a moment.

He flips over on his own back instead. Neither of them really say anything to each other. One of Morgan’s hands tightly holds onto his bicep and through the next five minutes his breathing pauses and stutters into little gasps. Finally he muffles a whimper in his throat. Robin decides not to think about that, either. There’s no point.


End file.
